Of Razors
by Harmonic Friction
Summary: Draco Malfoy was good at many things. Writing love letters just wasn't one of them. (One-shot. SadisticDraco/implied MasochisticHermione)


A/N: This is for Tobiume, who is the Mudblood to my Malfoy. She's awesome. Shameless plug: Tobiume and myself will be starting a Dramione fic together soon on a joint account and when that happens, I'll post the info in my profile.

Warning: Rated M for slightly impure language, sex talk and sadism/masochism overtones.

* * *

of razors

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Dear Granger,

I suppose if I were another person it wouldn't be too insane to test out inking your first name. At this point, it seems like it would be ridiculous for me not to address you by your first name.

But while I am not entirely certain about how I feel regarding what happened yesterday evening, I most definitely do not yet feel comfortable referring to you as if we are on a first name basis. We aren't, no matter what names for you slipped out of my mouth last night. Just remember this: I may have shagged you, but I am absolutely not fond of you. You are not my equal, you are beneath me, and I will still refer to you as "Granger", or simply "Mudblood" because that is what you are to me and that is how I will always see you.

I am writing to tell you some things that are on my mind, but I must first ask for you to understand that I detest you with every bone in my body, that I'm repulsed by your voice, that I'm sickened by your world views, that I absolutely and utterly hate you.

Do you understand? Have you got it in your head how much I loathe your face, your mind, your friends? If you understand how much I hate you, continue reading. (If you for any reason dare to romanticize my words and interpret them as the opposite of what they clearly state, you should directly go set yourself on fire.)

* * *

I'm assuming you've either turned over the parchment because you understand I hate you or because you're an obnoxious, nosy bitch. Or perhaps both. At this point, I have to admit to you that while I hate you, (in BOLD, in CAPITAL LETTERS, HATE), I can't stop thinking about the fact that I hate you. It's kind of making me ill. I also can't stop thinking about all the things I did to your dirty blood body. I'm not exactly certain how it happened, but I'm not sure if I even want you to tell me, or if you even know. All I know is that it felt good to finally hate you physically. It was a release I've never felt in my entire life.

It felt good to kiss you while imagining I had a mouthful of razors. It felt good to swat your arse and slap you and hold you down. It felt good to bite your neck while you called out. It felt good to pull your hair and it felt good to shove my cock in your throat when I was tired of hearing your voice. It felt good to hear you choke and sputter. And it even felt good when you bit me back, and dug your nails in, grazed my cock with your teeth because that meant I could hate you even more.

My third favorite part about hating you last night was when I played with your clit so hard you begged for me to let you come and so instead I bit your inner thigh and left your dirty blood cunt alone. You were pleading with me then. I liked hearing you finally get some manners, Granger. Pleading looks interesting on you. But I didn't let you come yet, did I? No, I didn't.

My second favorite part about hating you last night was when I held you down and made you tell me all about your other escapades because it sickened me deeply. Like I really want to know about who you get off with. Please. The only thing more disgusting than you is someone who worships the ground you walk on, someone who loves you. To be honest, I figured you hadn't been with anyone which is why I asked. I did not want to hear about you kissing Viktor Krum in the rose bushes. I did not want to hear about you and Weasley's tedious on again/ off again "relationship". I certainly didn't want to hear about the Muggle neighbor you slept with over last summer, or that he was kind and had nice hair. I wanted to be your first, and I wanted to taint you. But instead, Granger, you tainted me and I hate you for it.

I bet you can guess my first favorite part.

Can you?

My first favorite part of hating you was scooping you in my arms and staring you right in the face while you begged me to punish you and when I entered you, you called me "Draco." Why was that my favorite part? Because it meant I won. Because you called me "Draco" and you are "Granger". You are "Mudblood". You are nothing and I'm everything grand, you're filthy, you're just a dirty dark hole for me to fill. And I didn't even care about restraining myself. I let go too early because I could, and you got a look in your eyes that told me you finally recognised you made a big mistake. You saw yourself for what you really are.

You looked me right in the eyes and said, "Oh my God." That was when you left, Granger, after you picked up the sad little trail of clothing you'd spilled all over the rug. But the thing I cannot work out is this: I was actually a bit disappointed to see you go.

That was twenty-one hours ago. I know because I have been listening to the clock tick, and I have not slept. My mouth tastes like you and it is very dry. The floor is hurting my back but I do not wish to move. It is cold here.

I can't stop wondering if possibly you're somewhere slumped over, or leaned back, or even lying on the floor like me. I'm wondering if you're sore, or if you're showering in burning water to get me off, or if you can still smell me in your hair, and I'm thinking about all the bruises I must have left on you. I'm wondering if you're counting all of your favorite things about hating me. If you're analyzing them. If you're trying to figure out what we did and why.

And so help me, I'm hungry, Granger. You're a release I could get used to.

But in my head, I keep re-playing three words.

"Oh my God."

Three words left hanging in the air. And I'm hoping I'm right, that the "Oh, my God" was referring to the fact that you realised you'd just gotten off with the boy you dislike most, that I humiliated you enough to ruin you. I'm hoping that the "Oh, my God" wasn't referring to the fact that I came almost immediately after filling you. Because, like I said, I _chose_ to do that! What pleasure would it give me to perform for you? Absolutely none. If I had wanted to wait, I would have!

And I hate you so much, I'm wondering if you'll ever come back to me so I can hate you again. I'm wondering if I'll ever know for sure what you hate the most about me though I do have my guesses. Do you hate the sounds I made come out of your mouth? Do you hate my fingers, and how they made your back arch and your legs shake? Do you hate the fact that, despite how good you want to be, you abandoned all reason and opened up for me? Go ahead and blame the firewhiskey, the stress, the studying. Blame your friends, even. Tell yourself it wasn't really you. But I saw the look in your eyes.

Are you afraid you're going to do it again? Are you thinking about it like it's going to be an accident, even though you're planning exactly how you could go about winding up with me inside you? Are you imagining just how you'd try to humiliate me if I ever tried to get fresh with you again, how you'd laugh in my face and say "never"? Spit?

Am I alone here? Please don't tell me that. Of all the things in the world, how pitiful would it be to have my mind stuck on a Mudblood who has no thoughts whatsoever of me! I worry that you'll cease in hating me and that you'll just forget. I've always known that hatred is highly important, and if you hate me as much as I hate you I'll be satisfied.

I'll be here, loathing you forever and craving to hear that you loathe me, too.

_Signed,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Mudblood-hater,_

_Traitor, _

_Trainwreck, _

_Fool... _

_and writer of stupid letters that I will never, ever send. _

* * *

_fin_


End file.
